


Ninth Piece

by maggiedragon



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Fluff, Fortune Telling, Halloween, M/M, Percival Graves is bad at words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 11:00:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiedragon/pseuds/maggiedragon
Summary: No one gets Samhain off in the Department of Magical Security and on a night where magic misfires and beasts go berserk, Credence thinks it might be best that he stays in the Woolworth Building with his caretakers. Queenie Goldstein, however, isn't letting the holiday go completely uncelebrated.Featuring divination games, a surprising number of apples and no one being good at that talking thing.





	Ninth Piece

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morwrach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/gifts).



> a very belated Halloween prompt fill!

No one got Samhain off in the Department of Magical Security. With the veils thinned between the worlds, there was inevitably a beast that went berserk or a necromancer that wanted to take advantage of the date’s unique magical capabilities. All Aurors-- and any administrative staff deemed necessary-- were to be in the building that night. Exceptions to the rule were only granted sparingly; deaths in the immediate family, a long-term assignment that required an Auror to be elsewhere, and sufficiently gruesome injury were among the few acceptable reasons. 

That Tina and Queenie Goldstein had a ward was not. Not even when that ward was Credence Barebone, Obscurial and only recently integrated into the wizarding world. 

“Such a shame, honey. You oughta see the parties people hold,” Queeni said as she brushed Credence’s hair, the Charm comb leaving it sleek and wavy on the back of his neck. “When we was at Ilvermorny, they used to spell the Great Hall ceiling so you could see through it. Teenie and I used to drink mulled pumpkin juice and play fortune telling games and look for the Wild Hunt out among the stars.” 

“The Wild Hunt?” Credence asked. 

“Just a fairy tale,” Tina clipped out, looking up from her copy of _The New York Ghost_ as her coat hovered in front of the fire, drying out. “At Samhain, magic tends to get loose; beasts run amok. People tend to be drinking and then they get carried away about what they’ve seen.”

And the combination of both? The living magic turned violent and dark that lived in his chest? _Magic gets loose; beasts run amok._ Credence suppressed the shudder and felt something slither and move low in his stomach. If Samhain affected the Obscurus...

“Tina. Can I come into work with you?” he asked suddenly. Better to be close at hand, behind warded walls.

“Honey,” Queenie began. 

_Please don’t,_ he thought as loudly as he could. He knew-- he knew Queenie had seen his worry and his fear and he didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he was wrong and the Obscurus would remain as quiescent as it had since the apocalyptic rage it had unleashed in December. Still, he wouldn’t risk it. Spending a night at the spare desk in the Aurors’ bullpen with a book, a cup of tea, when his caretakers would have been working anyway-- it was a small cost to avoid the risk. 

He’d rather die (again, _again_ ) than let it loose. 

 

Halloween-- no, Samhain, Credence reminded himself. Mages called it Samhain--dawned wet and cold in New York. Despite Tina having imbued his shoes and coat-- not fancy, but new and sized to fit-- with an Impervious Charm, the chill seeped into his bones, under his collar and up his sleeves. It seemed like even less of a hardship to stay inside the Woolworth Building, tucked quietly a corner of the warmth and bustle of the bullpen. 

Queenie must have told Tina why he’d asked to come with her. Her mouth was pressed in a thin line when she’d left him in the small break room off the Aurors’ bullpen. 

“Here,” she’d said and pressed a new paperback book into his hand. “If you’re gonna-- I don’t want you to be bored. Queenie says you like mysteries.”

“I do. Thank you,” he said softly. _Clouds of Witness_ by Dorothy L. Sayers read the title, blue-grey background with red lettering.

She’d squeezed his shoulder lightly, mouth still pressed tight. “Credence, I wish---” She stopped and reconsidered. “Have a good Samhain. I’ll come and check on you whenever I can.” 

“I will, Tina,” Credence promised. 

It was a pleasant hour or so. Queenie had insisted that he was allowed to make himself a cup of tea from the break room’s supplies. The battered ceramic mug next to him sent thin threads of bergamot-scented steam into the air. Lord Peter Wimsey had been on vacation in Corsica-- which seemed like it was an island in Europe somewhere. But his sister’s fiance had been murdered outside their own hunting lodge and their brother was suspected of the murder. 

“Fletcher, take your team and go to Hart Island. Stay in Patronus contact in case you have to be relocated.” A baritone voice, faintly gravelled with fatigue and experience, broke Credence out of his absorption. 

Credence couldn’t help but creep to the door of the break room, wanting to hear the other man more clearly. The voice was muffled through the oak door and he slipped it open just enough to glance outside. The Aurors stood clustered around their desks, dark brown leather coats shimmering faintly with wards and their attention fixed on their director. 

Mr. Graves. It had taken Credence nearly six months to realize that he only stood a few inches shorter than the older man. It was easier to remember in the Goldsteins’ living room, with Queenie humming faintly in the background and Mr. Graves in his shirtsleeves as they labored over Transfiguration. Now, though, looking at Mr. Graves in his resplendent white-slashed coat, his voice terse and professional without any of the warmth that sometimes showed through in his lessons, Credence felt small again. 

“Branson, there’s been increased activity of horned serpents in the Catskills. Grab brooms; take your team up there and get eyes on it. Make sure it’s staying well within its own territory. McIlvain, same with the Kipsy; it’s gotten fired up before, so take a Calming Draught with you in case you need to dose it. Cortez, keep your squad in reserve here in case another report comes in.”

Mr. Graves was calm and confident, running through the tasks he’d assigned to his Aurors as folders drifted through the air, finding their ways to the various team leaders. He glanced up as he sent the last file to Lieutenant McIlvain and caught Credence’s eye. 

Credence jerked back from the door, letting it close with a click that seemed terrifyingly audible. He hadn’t meant to be eavesdropping; his heart hammered and he felt small. _Naked._

But...Mr. Graves hadn’t seemed indignant. At most, there’d been an tilt of surprise to his eyebrow and the tug to his lips that Credence had slowly learned meant warmth, the hint of a smile. Credence’s heart slowed as he went back to his book, used a brief charm to warm his tea back to steaming. 

He wondered, sometimes, how Mr. Graves’ coworkers hadn’t noticed when he’d stopped smiling. He’d thought it was stress, at first, worry about this dying child, the urgency of the mission that had drained away the warmth away from under the sternness and replaced it with... Credence didn’t know. A kind of pressure, of kind of hunger that had frightened him as much as allured him. Grindelwald--- he’d learned that was his name-- had pressed and urged. Graves stepped back and waited, gave him space and respect. Still, it had been nice to be held. Credence wondered what it would have been like without the pressure to do, to perform, to find. 

What it would be like coming from Mr. Graves.

There was a crisp knock on the break room door and then Mr. Graves stepped inside. “Credence,” he said quietly. “I’m surprised to see you here on the holiday.”

“I-- Tina and Queenie are both working.” 

“And?” Mr. Graves prompted. 

Credence couldn’t lie to Mr. Graves, couldn’t even conceal a half-truth. He could feel heat flushing into his cheeks, the Obscurus curling around his spine. “With what they said about the magic…” he muttered. 

“The Obscurus.” There was a wealth of comprehension in the older man’s voice. 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone else.” Credence’s eyes nailed themselves to the floor.

“You won’t,” Mr. Graves’ baritone was quiet. “You’re not alone anymore. Credence, I---” There was a rustle of fabric, a rush of cologne, warm wood and spice and then--nothing. The older man had reached for him and then lowered his hand. “How is the transfiguration going?”

“I--ahm. Better. The match’s turning a little silvery but I’m not very good at it.”

“Transfiguration is a difficult magic. You shouldn’t sell yourself short.” Newt Scamander had said the best and least intrusive way of removing the Obscurus was simply to let Credence learn magic. _Magic is a river. Remove the dam and the force of the stream will clear away all the refuse with time,_ the young Brit had said-- along with a lot of other much more technical language that he hadn’t understood. The result of it had been the slender willow wand tucked into his vest-- and lessons in defensive magic from Tina, charms from Queenie and Transfiguration from Graves. 

Maybe transfiguration _was_ difficult. Credence wouldn’t know, but both Graves and Tina said so. It...probably didn’t help that he spent most of the Transfiguration lessons tongue-tied and unable to focus. But he shouldn’t let Mr. Graves think the fault laid with him. He carried enough strain along his mouth as it was, deep marks that Credence didn’t know if anyone could soothe away. 

“...if I’m getting better, it’s because I have a good teacher,” he finally dared to say, looking up from the floor. 

“You are the sweetest thing, my boy.” Mr. Graves quirked his lips again, the same subtle warmth to it, but then he sobered again, eyes going dark and inexpressive, the hint of some kind of conflict signaled only by the tightness of his jaw. “Just a boy.” 

“Mr. Graves…” Had it been regret? Credence swallowed and took a step forward. “Mr. Graves. If there’s something I can do for you. Please.” 

“Credence--” and then Mr. Graves had taken a step toward him as well, the scent of his cologne heady now, almost overwhelming. The older man had never been this close before, not when he had been himself, without the sense of desperation underlying the agarwood and clove.

“Boss?” An Auror’s voice rang clearly even through the wood of the door. The spell-- the trance--whatever that had been created by proximity and warmth of cologne-- shattered into pieces. 

Mr. Graves stepped away. 

“Oakhurst.” 

“I’m sorry but Sophie went to check on the Kipsy and it got _really mad_. Protective mad? And it’s gotten really big and its eyes have gotten red-tinged and Sophie doesn’t want to give it the Calming Draught because she thinks it’s having a baby?”

“Deliverance Dane,” Mr. Graves muttered, then glanced back to Credence. “I-- have a very good evening, Credence. Happy Samhain.” 

And then he was back out through the door, long black coat sweeping behind him before Credence could say another word. 

It took a long time for his heart to slow to a normal level. Even longer for him to notice that he’d let his tea go cold _again_. There wasn’t any helping it though.

Credence had only just gotten back to his book when Queenie returned, navy blue dress swishing around her knees and velvet purse bulging despite its Space Charm. “How’s your evening been, honey?”

“Alright,” he offered. “Tina brought me a book.”

Queenie gave him a smile and started to unpack her purse onto the break room table. “We both feel terrible that you’re stuck in MACUSA with us,” she told him. “Young thing like you, you oughta be at a party with your squeeze, not stuck here with the old birds.”

“This is plenty wild for me,” Credence answered with a smile, even as he watched Queenie empty the contents of her purse with increasing mystification. A bag of apples, a small skein of yarn, a box of pastries which (label scraped off or not) he recognized as Kowalski’s. A swing-top glass bottle of something orange, three champagne coupes. 

Queenie answered the question before he even asked it. “---so we brought the party to _you_ , silly. Mulled pumpkin juice and divination games. I’ve finished all the filing Abernathy left and Teenie’s gonna join us whenever she gets her break.”

She opened the bottle of orange liquid with a pop and a hiss and poured both of them glasses. Clove and cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg hung in the air and Credence couldn’t help but think of Mr. Graves, the spice of his cologne, underlaid with a warm nutty wood smell that he would never be able to place. He tried to force his mind away. He knew that Queenie could see that he talked to Mr. Graves; her presence in his mind sparkled like champagne and starlight, but he still didn’t want to make all of the details, all of the...desire. It _was_ desire and he didn’t do himself any favors by lying about it. 

“I think you’ll like these games.” Queenie touched his shoulder lightly, handed him one of the champagne coupes and the skein of yarn. “C’mon, we gotta find a window.”

“Games? What kind?” Credence asked as he followed Queenie out of the break room and into the elevator. The skein of yarn in his hand was baffling. He’d seen Modesty and Chastity play cat’s cradle, passing a spare bit of yarn knotted to form a loop back and forth in intricate patterns. It had been one of the few games Ma had approved of, noting the theological implications of the manger that became a cradle. 

But that had never involved a _window_.

“It’s a divination game,” Queenie said as they stepped out on the sixth floor, high above the Magical Exposure Clock. She was looking at him now with something more serious in her blue eyes. “Supposed to tell you who your true love is.”

Credence went scarlet, ducking his head and hiding between his dark hair, now falling in longer tousled curves. Still, he couldn’t help asking.

“...do they work?”

“Some people swear by ‘em, sweetie,” Queenie said gently as they slipped into a deserted office. 

Credence took a sip of the mulled pumpkin juice as he thought. It was chilled, infused with sweet spices and just faintly effervescent. Queenie hadn’t really answered him, but what could it hurt? If the games didn’t work, then it was just a silly game, a pastime while they drank mulled pumpkin juice and waited for Tina to have her break. If they did…

Well then he would hear a name that wasn’t _Percival Graves_ and at least he would have an answer. 

“How do I play?”

“I’ll go first and show you,” Queenie said. She held the skein by its end and then dropped it out the window, letting it unravel down the side of the building. “You wind it back up and you should hear the name of your beau.”

She started to, clear, warm voice repeating _I wind. Who holds?_ as the maroon yarn slowly accumulated around her palm. 

“I wind. Who holds?” she said and then again. “I wind. Who holds?” She paused, head cocked to one side and then a small smile spread across her lips like a cat with cream.

“...I didn’t hear anything,” Credence said. 

“I did,” Queenie said and handed him the yarn. “Your turn.” 

The night air rushing in through the window was cold, biting into Credence’s hands as soon as he let the ball of yarn drop. He suddenly felt foolish. What if someone saw him doing this?

“They’ll think you’re a young wizard playing Samhain games like anyone else,” Queenie reminded him gently.

Credence smiled, brought out of his anxiety and took a sip of the pumpkin juice, letting the taste of cloves and cinnamon soothe him before he started to wind the yarn. 

“I wind. Who holds?” he asked, echoing Queenie’s behavior. “I wind. Who holds?” 

His fingers were starting to go numb from the cold as the maroon yarn wrapped around and around his palm.

“I wind. Who holds?” 

“Percival.” 

Credence nearly dropped the entirety of the yarn out the window. He spun around, looking to see who had said that but….Queenie was standing right there and it hadn’t been her voice anyway. It had to have been an Auror then, someone walking by on another floor. Their voice had drifted up through the Atrium. 

But Mr. Graves had told him once that only Theseus and Sophie called him Percival. And Theseus was in London and Miss McIlvain was in the Hudson River with a pregnant Kipsy so who…

“There you two are!” Tina’s voice was a welcome reprieve from his own thoughts. 

“Teenie!” Queenie gestured her over to the window. “You on your break? You oughta come play; I got more pumpkin juice in the break room.”

“I am not dangling yarn out the Woolworth Building window when I’m supposed to be working,” Tina said. “What will Lieutenant Branson think?” 

“That it’s Samhain?” Queenie echoed, gesturing to the pumpkin juice and then to Credence who 

“Fine.” Tina softened. “It _is_ Credence’s first. But can we play something different? Something more discreet?”

Queenie’s smile could have lit a Manhattan block. “I’ve got just the one.” 

 

“That’s an N, Teenie,” Queenie teased as they stood in the breakroom. Tina had been provided with her own glass of juice and they’d launched into the next game. It involved peeling an apple in one continuous knife movement, so it formed a long curving spiral, spinning it around your head three times and then tossing it over your shoulder. The idea, Credence had learned with a sinking feeling in his stomach, was that it formed the initial of your true love.

 

Furiously pink spots were appearing on Tina’s cheeks as she turned around to examine the peel as it laid on the floor. “No, it is _not_.” She gestured at the apple peel on the floor. “Look at it. It’s too curvy.” 

Queenie’s grin was pure mischief. “Ah, so it’s an S, then. Family name, eh?”

“ _Queenie._ ”

“I’ll go,” Credence offered simply to give Tina a break. Peeling the apple evenly wasn’t as hard as he’d thought; his hands still remembered preparing gallons of soup, peeling potatoes and carrots, dicing onions and celery. It took him a moment to remember that he needed to be careful rather than fast, but slowing down and taking his time quickly gave him an intact peel. 

“Three times around my head?”” Credence asked. Queenie nodded and-- still feeling a little foolish and unsure if he wanted the initials as it landed to be _PG_ or anything but-- he whirled the peel in the air and let it go. 

“Huh.” Tina cocked her head to one side as she looked at the peel. “That’s definitely a P.” 

Credence felt red rush into his cheeks. _Don’t_ he pre-emptively begged Queenie in his mind. Tina didn’t know. He had finally, tentatively, confessed to preferring men in the summer, half-knowing his caretakers wouldn’t care, half-sure they would throw him out and preferring to get it over with. They had been loving and accepting; Tina had explained to him that spells that bound two people in marriage had never discriminated by gender and that the wizarding world had followed suit. Still, there was a difference between men in general and that man-- _Tina’s boss_.

“There’s a Preston in the Research Division, honey,” Queenie teased smoothly and Credence couldn’t hold back the wave of gratitude. “He’s a little shorter than you, but he’s a sheikh.”

“Preston St-Clair is pompous ass, Queenie; Credence deserves better.” 

“I think he’s sweet. He puffs up sometimes but--”

Credence let the two sisters spar, going and refilling his own pumpkin juice. Queenie meant to be kind, he knew, to give him a holiday he’d never had any rights to, but the games just left him ill-at-ease, painfully aware of what he couldn’t have, no matter what they said.  
“Sweetie?” Queenie came over to the break room table and slid the box of pastries over to him. “Have a piece of _makowiec._ ”

“I’m sorry.” Credence obliged, taking a piece of strudel that he thought was chocolate at first until he bit into it. The black filling was sweet and slightly grainy--- made with some sort of seeds? 

“I should be sorry, honey. Didn’t think---”

“Please.” The last thing Credence wanted was to make Queenie regret her kindness. “Just...maybe only one more game?”

Queenie squeezed his shoulder. “Of course. ‘Sides, this is one you gotta do yourself. I won’t ask and I’ll try not to peek. Fair?” 

Credence smiled at her-- even Queenie’s ‘sensible’ work heels brought her close to his height, after all-- and laid his hand on top of hers, for a moment. “Fair,” he said. “So what am I doing?”

 

Which was how Credence found himself standing by himself in the break room with a hand mirror wobbling in front of him, struggling to maintain his concentration on _Wingardium Leviosa_ as he cut another apple into nine pieces. He started to eat the pieces, one after the other, remembering Queenie’s instructions. _Hold each piece on a knife before you eat it. Your true love should appear over your shoulder and ask for the final piece._

Frankly, this was more likely to land Credence with seven years of bad luck rather than true love. His hands were full of apple and knife and his magical grip on the mirror was precarious at best. Still, he felt ridiculous---and somehow still anxious. As if he was going to see Mr. Graves’ face in the mirror. 

Or Preston St. Clair, whoever that was.

He ate another piece of apple even as he felt nervousness tighten his throat, making it hard to swallow. It didn’t matter, after all. They were games after all. They weren’t to be believed, even if he desperately wanted to. Or desperately didn’t.

Credence speared the last piece of apple and called the hand mirror to him with an effort of will. He didn’t bother to look. He’d finish the piece of fruit, go have another glass of mulled pumpkin juice with Tina and Queenie and go back to his book. It would be a good night and he wouldn’t think about names drifting up from an atrium or the ambiguous curves of an apple peel or the empty space in the still-floating--

Mr. Graves was standing behind him.

The mirror, the knife, the ninth piece of apple-- all of it went crashing to the ground as Credence’s concentration shattered and his hands went slack. Only Mr. Graves’ reflexive, wandless magic caught the mirror before it hit the floor.

Credence had to force himself to turn around, unable to look Mr. Graves in the face. Still, he could see the older man in his periphery, watch the keen brown eyes roam over the mirror now resting in his palm, the piece of apple, the knife, the pieces of peel they had gathered up but not yet thrown away. Mr. Graves was a wizard. Even if Credence couldn’t imagine the older man ever being so sad, so lonely, so _pathetic_ as to look for love and truth in an apple peel, he must know how the games were played.

Mr. Graves took a step towards him, hand held out as if to return the mirror. To reach for him?

Credence shrunk back, shame staining his cheeks. He wanted to run, to hide, to Disapparate like Tina or Queenie and be _anywhere_ but here.

Mr. Graves stopped. Quietly, deliberately, he set the hand mirror down and stepped to one side, opening a clear passage to the door of the break room.

Credence fled. Even then, even as he rushed, his face burning with cowardice and shame, the scent of Mr. Graves’ cologne lodged in his lungs, spice and agarwood tearing like shards. 

“Honey,” Queenie called after him with alarm. She and Tina had been sitting by another empty desk, giving him the space he’d wanted. They must not have seen Mr. Graves come in but Credence couldn’t, _couldn’t_ bear to face Queenie and her kindness and her knowing, Tina and her concern. 

Credence’s feet took him out of the building, across Broadway-- fortunately nearly empty after midnight-- and into the park in front of City Hall. He nearly tripped on the fountain, stumbled into a seated position on it, chest heaving. The stone was cold under his hands; the frozen air bit through his clothes. 

He was already starting to shiver but he stayed where he was, tilting his head back to look up at the pitch-black sky. The rainclouds from earlier had swept through, but the bright lights of the city obscured the stars until only a few were visible. He wondered if the Wild Hunt would ever come to somewhere so civilized, where electricity banished every shadow and newspapers unveiled every mystery. 

Credence forced himself to exhale slowly, watching his breath plume white in front of his face. The chill pulled the heat from his face but couldn’t do anything to settle the humiliated pressure in his chest. He shouldn’t have run though. Someone less awkward, less tongue-tied would have laughed it off, made a joke out of the mere idea that someone someone as clever, as powerful, as _good_ as Mr. Graves should happen to walk in right at that moment. Instead, Credence had balked, shied away and turned red until the older man hadn’t had any other option than to step aside and let him flee like a child. 

Credence’s stomach lurched and he pulled a knee into his chest and rested his chin on it. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, focusing on breathing to push past the second pang of shame. 

Warmth settled over his shoulders, smooth silk lining and a cloud of immediately recognizable cologne. 

Credence’s eyes snapped open to find Mr. Graves standing in front of him, the elegant white-trimmed coat swirled over his shoulders and for a moment he couldn’t find breath or words for speak. What he finally managed nearly made him wish he’d just stayed silent.

“Mr. Graves. You just draped half your coat in the fountain.” 

The hint of a smile tugged at Mr. Graves’ lips. “There’s magic. It’ll dry.” 

For a moment, there was nothing but the running water of the fountain before both of them started to speak at once. 

“Credence--”

“Mr. Graves, I--” 

“Stop.” Two fingers pressed over Credence’s lips. “Please. Just---let me?” 

Mr. Graves’ bare fingers against his mouth, his coat over his shoulders. Credence wasn’t sure he could have spoken even if he’d been included to disobey. He nodded mutely instead. 

“Credence. I--” Mr. Graves sighed and held out his hand, revealing a single dirt-smudged piece of apple lying his his wand-callused palm. “May I have this?”

Why was Mr. Graves asking him about a dirty piece of fruit? Credence stared at his palm dumbfounded for a moment before he finally recalled the rules of the divination game that Queenie had told him. _Your true love should appear over your shoulder and ask for the final piece._

“I---” Credence stumbled, looking up at the older man with wide eyes

“I have apparently been a useless ninny with no spine to speak of, to quote the younger Miss Goldstein,” Mr. Graves said softly. “But I’m here. I don’t place much stock in Samhain games but if I _am_ the person you were hoping to see in that mirror, then well-- I would very much like this piece of apple.”

The impossibility of it, the utter ludicrousness of Mr. Graves confession to wanting him, to desiring him at all, let alone via a slowly-browning apple slice that looked like it might have a piece of hair stuck to it broke something loose in Credence and he started to smile, then snicker and finally burst into impossible, joyous laughter at the idea of it all. 

“Credence?” Mr. Graves said with a faint thread of alarm. 

Credence still didn’t have words but he launched himself off the edge of the fountain and into the older man’s chest. The piece of apple went flying to the ground; the soaked bottom half of the coat dripped ice water against his calves but Mr. Graves was there and warm and solid and holding him and that was all that mattered.

“My boy,” Graves said and his fingers slid into Credence's hair, the tips brushing over his scalp. At some point, a burst of wandless magic dried the sopping edges of the coat but Credence barely registered. 

“Do you--- do you know how long I’ve wanted to--” Credence’s voice was shaking. 

“I am a useless ninny. I know, my boy,” and Mr. Graves tilted his head up and kissed him. 

Mr. Graves’ breath was bittered by old coffee, drank without cream or sugar but his mouth was warm and soft. His thumb moved back and forth on Credence’s cheek, the gesture careful, cherishing. It brought a flush to the skin underneath, pinker and more gentle than the burning shame that had sent Credence fleeing out of the Woolworth Building and into the park. 

When they broke apart, Credence was gasping faintly. The kiss had been slow and chaste, but it had sent warm light curling through his veins. He struggled for words, for breath. 

“...it has been a long time since I’ve done this.” Mr. Graves managed to speak first, wry humor tugging at his mouth. “And we should talk, but-- not now when you’re standing outside with no coat.”

“I’m wearing yours, Mr. Graves.” 

“Percival. Please.” The smile touched his eyes this time and marked crow’s-feet into his skin. “Well. Then. Not when _I’m_ standing outside with no coat. Will you have dinner with me? Tomorrow?” 

At first Credence only nodded mutely, so much joy on his tongue that it made it hard to speak, but he finally managed words. “I-- Yes. I’d like that. Very much.”

“Let’s get you inside then and we’ll set a time.” Mr.---no, _Percival_ held out his hand. 

Credence took it and they were about to leave when Percival spotted the now even dirtier piece of apple lying on the ground next to the fountain. It had picked up a faint coating of leaf dust and Credence must have stepped on half of it. 

Percival followed his gaze. “I don’t actually have to eat that, do I?”

“No.” Credence couldn’t hold back laughter again, welling up freely and golden. “No, you don’t.”

The rules said that Percival had had to ask for it, and he had. The older man had said he didn’t believe in Samhain games; Credence wasn’t sure if he did either. But, for tonight, at least, they had worked. 

And that was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> Like it? Want to know why every single one of my Graves, regardless of universe, is weird about food? Let me know in the comments or hit me up at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/maggieandthedragon


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